


Seasons of Love

by NewNewDoctor (DisnerdingAvenger)



Series: The New Romantics [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Club AU, F/F, F/M, Seventies AU, aka everybody's friends, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 05:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17595293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisnerdingAvenger/pseuds/NewNewDoctor
Summary: John Smith had everything going for him - he was on the fast track to becoming a truly great doctor - until his parents died tragically in a fire, leaving him to take care of his six-year-old sister, Jane, when he was only twenty-four. Now, seventeen years later, the year is 1978 and Jane has been placed on the same trajectory for success. The only difference? She doesn't want to be a doctor; she wants to spearhead the greatest girl power band that Britain has ever seen, with the help of her best mate, Martha Jones. The only problem? The only way she's ever going to get to leave medical school to perform on the club circuit and have a chance at making it big is over John's dead body.





	Seasons of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello, hello, everybody! It's been a while, hasn't it? So, here's the deal: I was writing a paper on the New Romantics era in British culture yesterday, and this plot bunny bit me. What if we threw a whole bunch of Doctor Who characters into the 1970's London club circuit? What if Thirteen wanted to start a girl group? What if Thirteen and Nine (and Ten and Donna) were siblings? And what if essentially everyone was in love with Rose Tyler? For more on the series and what's to come, check out my Tumblr! http://apictureofspace.tumblr.com/post/182414343201/endless-list-of-doctor-who-aus-2-the-new
> 
> For once, when I say that I'm going to finish a series this time, I actually mean it; I made an outline and everything! You can trust me on this. So relax, and when you're sitting comfortably, we'll begin.

When he was eighteen years old, John Smith had a bright future ahead of him. Some might even say exceedingly bright – _fantastically_ bright. From a young age, he’d displayed a unique kind of genius; he picked up on things quickly, remembered them flawlessly, and reiterated them at the speed of light. But he wasn’t just inwardly clever; he was outwardly clever, too. _Nobody’s as good with their hands as John_ , his parents and virtually everyone they knew had gushed. _Someday, that boy’s going to save lives_.

Saving lives had, in fact, been his intention. He wanted to be a doctor, and no one had doubted that he would become one. With a plethora of scholarships from his institution of choice, he was on the fast track for success upon graduating secondary school. He was going to do big things.

The arrival of his baby sister, Jane, roughly a month and a half into his first semester at university had been a surprise for everyone, to say the least, but it had been a welcome one. He was a doting big brother if there ever was one, spoiling the adventurous blonde toddler with books; toys of every shape, size, colour, and level of noise production; and _biscuits_. Perhaps that’s why Jane would always squeal with delight whenever he came home for a visit from school; it was wonderfully sentimental to think she was just excited to see him, but it very likely had a great deal more to do with the fact that he always, _always_ kept a biscuit hidden in his pocket for her, to slip into her eager little hands when their mother, who had a strict “ _no sweets before dinner!_ ” rule, wasn’t looking. Yes, little Jane Smith loved biscuits – and she loved her brother, too. Of course she did.

Everyone called Jane “the miracle baby”. After John was born in ’37, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had no further luck conceiving children. They’d always wanted another - someone to keep John company – but the stars hadn’t aligned. Not until October 31st, 1955, that is. Jane Smith was a Halloween baby, mischievous and with a massive sweet tooth, and the entire family felt very, very lucky indeed.

Until their luck ran out on a cold December night in 1961. John had been away to medical school, pursuing his graduate work and well on his way to receiving his MD-PhD, and Jane was at a sleepover with some friends from school. It had only been Mr. and Mrs. Smith at home that night... when the gas fire broke out and the entire house went up.

Nothing was spared; not a photo album, not a stuffed toy, not even a screwdriver from the old junk drawer in the kitchen.

Not even Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s lives. They died on December 16th, just a little over a week before Christmas.

That’s when everything cracked. Suddenly John Smith, who had been destined for such _great things_ , was at a terrible impasse. He’d lost his parents. He’d lost the home where he grew up. _And so had Jane_.

Little Jane, with her blonde pigtails and bright smile, was all alone in the world – and the bloody social workers wanted to send her away, to _Galway_ , to live with their Aunt Missy! Not only was Missy not fit to look after a child (let alone one as rambunctious as his sister), but Jane being carted off to Galway would mean he’d never see her. No popping on the bus to the other side of London for visits on the weekend; it would take him _fifteen hours_ by train to get to her. His grades would slip from the time spent traveling, unable to focus, and traveling _fifteen hours_ just to be stuck with Aunt Missy? The notion was horrid. Simply horrid. And if the idea of spending a few _hours_ with their aunt made his head hurt, what would _living with her_ do to poor Jane? He couldn’t do it to her. He just couldn’t. So, he did what any big brother worth his snuff would have done.

He dropped out of medical school, moved into a flat on the other side of town, got a crummy job he hated, and took on the responsibility of raising his little sister by himself. She was the only family ( _that he actually liked_ ) who he had left; he’d be damned if he was going to lose her, too. He would go back to school once she got a bit older; his dreams weren’t _dead_. They were just… on pause.

* * *

_January 29 th 1978_

“He’d never let me do it. I’d have to sneak out of the flat and he’s got bloody _superhearing_. Those ears of his aren’t _his_ curse; they’re _mine_.”

Trudging through the chilly rain down Regent Street, a bright blue umbrella poised over her head, Jane Smith pursed her lips together after she spoke. She was walking home from a harrowing day of graduate classes at the University of Westminster alongside her classmate and fellow commiserator, Martha Jones. Upon hearing her excuse, Martha scoffed out a laugh.

“You’re twenty-three! Y’don’t need your big brother’s _permission_ to go to a club. Besides, it’s not like we’d be _partying;_ we’d be _playing_.”

“Playing backup for _Mickey Smith_ ,” Jane sniffed, scrunching up her nose with displeasure, and Martha rolled her eyes.

“It’s better than nothing, isn’t it? Until we can find a singer, we aren’t going to get anywhere. Nobody wants to see duos anymore, especially _girl_ duos. We need a third. We’ve been over this, time and time again.”

Upon hearing Martha say “especially _girl_ duos”, Jane’s lips had pressed into an even tighter line, her eyes flashing in a look that, since she was a toddler, John had called “the Oncoming Storm”. It was usually followed by a fit of absolutely unparalleled rage, shocking for a girl so tiny. She’d gotten better at controlling her temper with age, but she was still no better at concealing it – _especially_ when it came to sexism. Sure, Kimi and Ritz could get recognition, since Kimi was _married_ to Ritz, but for two single women looking to break into the London music scene? Clubs wouldn’t have it. They weren’t _original_ enough, evidently. The owners were convinced that nobody would come out just to see two girls who happen to be good at the piano and guitar.

But, even if people _would_ come out (which Jane was sure they would; the suggestion that they’d drive people _away_ was an absolute load of horse shite), John would never let her work the club circuit. He’d never let her pursue music, to begin with. It’s a conversation (i.e. an ongoing argument) that they had been having for the past five years; he wanted her to stay in school and become a doctor. He kept citing, over and over again, that “it had been [her] dream since [she] was seven years old” – and, true enough, it had been. The operative word being _had_. When she was a kid, all she’d wanted was to be a doctor, just like John had wanted to be. She played doctor with her stuffed toys, and with their ginger cat Amelia, and with her human friends. She excelled in science at school. Everyone began to say that _Jane_ Smith was destined for greatness, to the point that John, and everyone in their building, started calling her “Doc”. It was a nickname that had stuck. While Jane still liked the nickname, she wished she could shake the connotations. Being a doctor wasn’t _her_ dream anymore; it was _John’s_. All Jane wanted to do was play the piano in a badass girl group (because, fine, maybe they _did_ need a third member) and stick it to the man. She’d realized that dream in her first semester at the University of Westminster.

When she first stepped onto that campus in 1973, she’d had every intention of getting her Bachelor’s degree in Science and then carrying on to medical school. Then, on a lunch break within her first week, she discovered that one of the buildings on campus had a music room that was open for student use. It was stuffed with old instruments that people had donated to the school, along with a grand piano that was used for lessons on Saturdays – and it was while sitting on that very piano bench that Jane realized she was _good_ at the piano. Like, _really_ good, and she’d only gotten better ever since. She could play “Stairway to Heaven” like nobody’s business.

It was in that music room, close to the first winter break of her academic career, that Jane met Martha – Martha, who, ironically enough, was also studying Science with an end goal of pursuing medicine. But, more importantly, Martha who was _really_ good on the guitar.

Like, _really_ good.

But it didn’t matter _how_ good they were to John. He was determined that Jane was going to graduate, with top marks at that, and that she wasn’t going to throw away her dreams on some “frivolous pop fantasy”.

 _His_ dreams, he meant. She wasn’t going to throw away _his_ dreams.

“You know what he’s like,” Jane finally said when they reached her building and they set off up the stairs toward the flat where the Smith siblings had resided for the past seventeen years, on the third floor. “If I so much as _mention_ music these days, he goes mental. He’ll say I ought to be studying.”

“He can’t keep guilting you forever, you know,” Martha countered, albeit gently. After knowing the Smiths for five years, she knew all about what their family had been through, and what John had given up to keep them together. But the way he was treating her wasn’t fair. “Just because he chose to give up his dreams doesn’t mean you should have to give up yours.”

“It’s… _complicated_ ,” Jane sighed, fishing her keys to the flat out of her denim jacket’s pocket to unlock the door once they reached #304. Folding up her umbrella and giving it a shake, she stepped inside, deftly scooping up Amelia before she could dart out into the rain. Dropping her keys, knapsack, and umbrella with a thud by the door, she gave the cat a kiss on the head before shouting, “John? I’m back! I’ve brought Martha ‘round, as well.”

“Doesn’t seem that complicated to me…” Martha muttered under her breath, signaling the end of their previous conversation in anticipation of the other, deeper Northern voice that typically followed Jane’s energetic shouts, but nothing came. Furrowing her brow, Jane kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot before setting Amelia on the floor and walking down the hall, poking her head into the kitchen – and there, on the yellow refrigerator door, was a note held in place by a banana-shaped magnet, scrawled in her brother’s rushed handwriting:

_Got called to work early. Jack was having a crisis – bar was out of little pink umbrellas. And no – he couldn’t use a different colour for his drink special. I asked. Why do I bother asking???? Dinner’s in the fridge. No wandering off._

Rolling her eyes, both at John’s complaints about Jack Harkness (who was his best friend, easily, even if he’d never admit it out loud) _and_ his oh-so-subtle “no wandering off”, Jane opted to ignore the “dinner’s in the fridge” entirely, instead making for the cupboard and pulling out a box of Custard Cream biscuits and hopping up to sit on the counter and snack on them.

“Where is he, then?” Martha questioned when she followed Jane into the kitchen, Amelia following at her heels. Instead of snagging a biscuit, Martha opted to steal an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter. Now _she_ really _could_ be a doctor, with habits like that. Smirking slightly at the thought, Jane nodded toward the note on the fridge.

“Went to the Blue Box early. Jack was havin’ an umbrella crisis.”

“ _Again?_ ” was all Martha asked.

“Third time this month,” Jane confirmed, smirking before popping the rest of her biscuit into her mouth.

“I just don’t get it,” Martha spoke up, taking a bite of her apple and shaking her head, lifting a hand to scratch behind Amelia’s ears when the cat hopped up onto the counter to cozy up to Jane. John hated it the cat being on the counters – but he also equally disliked Jane sitting on them. Deciding they were both rebels, _and that was the way she liked it_ , Jane let Amelia sit pretty right where she was while taking another biscuit from the box.

“What don’t you get?”

“Your brother is the bouncer _at a club_. Where does he get off telling you that you can’t play at one? He should know better than _anyone_ that the club circuit is where everybody’s getting discovered these days. Grungy glam rock’s the new Beatles.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that. Obsessed with the Beatles, he is,” Jane retorted, sighing heavily when it was clear Martha wasn’t going to let the subject drop. Either way, she wasn’t sneaking out to go and play tonight; if, and _when_ , she got put on a stage, it was going to be to perform her own songs with her own band, not as a backup because Mickey’s keyboard player got the flu.

“He’s against it because he looks at life like he _has_ to work there,” Jane finally stated, finishing her second biscuit and pushing the box aside. “I, apparently, _don’t_ ‘have’ to. Doesn’t make a difference that I _want_ to, or that he could’ve gone back to school ages ago. Thinks he’s too old now, he does. So now _I’ve_ gotta be the doctor while he works as the hired muscle bouncing at a club until he goes grey.”

“You haven’t ‘gotta’ do anything,” Martha retorted, poking Jane’s knee as her legs dangled above the floor. “Come with me tonight. Give the limelight a chance to shine on you. You’ll be back home before John’s shift’s even through. He’d never have to know.”

“Oh, he’d know. He always knows. When he says ‘don’t wander off’, he means in,” Jane disagreed, shaking her head and hopping down from the counter to put the biscuits away, putting the kettle on for tea afterward. “But that doesn’t matter; I don’t want to go tonight, anyway. I’ve _told_ you, I’m not gonna play backup for Mickey while he sings about all the pretty girls he’d like to shag like… like _all_ _the rest_ of them do.”

Wrinkling her nose with distaste, Jane fished around in the cupboard above the sink for her favourite mug: blue with the Milky Way constellations on it. Once it had been located and a teabag deposited inside of it, she turned and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest while the kettle boiled. No – she wouldn’t play backup for yet another _man,_ intent upon making a career out of objectifying women. It’s not that she didn’t _like_ Mickey; she’d known him nearly all her life, living in this part of London. She just thinks he’s an idiot.

“Besides,” she piped up before Martha could try to get her to change her mind, “We’ve got that history test tomorrow for Dr. Noble. Surely you haven’t forgotten _that?_ ”

Her tone was teasing – and for good reason. The only reason the two of them were taking a history elective at this point in their academic careers was that Martha was head-over-heels in love with Dr. Theo Noble, head of the University of Westminster’s History and Archaeological Sciences Department. Truthfully, Jane had never been able to understand what Martha saw in him; sure, he was smart, and he taught a good class, but he wasn’t _physically_ anything to marvel over. Too skinny.

Although, it was possible that Jane's assessment had more to do with her preferring girls than the actual attributes of Dr. Noble’s physique. Maybe, if she were straight, she’d understand why Martha would so eagerly sign up for an 8:30 class, on the same day they had hospital duty, when she didn't even _like_ morning classes. She’d always avoided them like the plague.

Unless they were taught by Dr. Noble.

As if on cue, Martha started blushing at Jane’s comment, standing up a tad straighter (with false dignity) as she responded, “I’ll have you know I already went to his office hours today. Had him quiz me and everything. He thinks I’m perfectly ready for the test, so a night out won’t _kill_ me. It wouldn’t kill you, either.”

“How many times do I have to say it? No! N-O-” Jane countered with frustration, not budging, until, finally, Martha gave up.

“Alright, alright! We won’t play backup for Mickey. Have it your way. But we _need_ to find a third member if we _ever_ want to make something of ourselves; preferably someone who can _sing_. A great singer's the only way we'll ever catch anyone's attention, and you and I are average, not _great_.”

Jane knew that Martha was right. She was right about all of it.

_But how in hell were they going to find a third member if John wouldn’t let her step near a club, where they’d undoubtedly have the best luck finding a good singer?_

**Author's Note:**

> Next time: John meets Rose. Where? The Space Oddity strip club.
> 
> ...sort of.


End file.
